


twenty five years

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester's Birthday, Fluff, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: two birthdays, twenty five years apart
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78
Collections: Anonymous





	twenty five years

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to post this last night but i don't think it went through?? idk. if you see it also posted on ao3 that was also me i guess
> 
> also this is, obviously, non-finale compliant

Dean tries, really tries, to think of it as a present. Finally, his dad is letting loose on the ropes a bit, finally letting him hunt on his own. But it’s kinda hard to convince himself when his dad sent him in with the case already figured out, with everything but the manual labor already done. 

_ It’s more like an errand he wants me to complete _ , Dean thinks resentfully, digging his shovel into the soft dirt.  _ Happy birthday, go dig up  _ two  _ graves. Have fun!  _

Dean huffs and pivots to the grave beside the other one. According to Dean’s research, the nuns had wanted to be buried together, but when the convent found their bodies they hadn’t really gone for that option. They  _ had  _ been buried next to each other, though, which makes Dean’s job just a little bit easier. 

He starts digging, even though he hasn’t finished digging out the first grave. You gotta dig ‘em up at the same time, ‘cause if you gank one then her lover gets angry, and the last thing Dean needs is an angry ghost harassing him while he digs up a grave. He can’t help but think that those other nuns should’ve buried them together. Not just because it would make Dean’s life easier, but because they wanted it. Because they were in love, and they killed themselves, and the convent owed them that much. 

Dean inhales, then exhales, his breath escaping in a little white cloud. It’s chilly, ‘cause it’s January, but it’s not too cold. He’s not wearing gloves or anything but he can still feel his hands. He shifts to the other grave and starts digging. 

He remembers what Charlie at the last school said about what his dad got him for his seventeenth birthday--a new car. Lindsey got a fancy necklace. Jake’s birthday hadn’t come up yet, but he’d been hoping for a dog. All Dean has is blisters on his fingers and a sore back from when the ghost of Sister Felicity threw him into a bookcase while he was retrieving the prayer book the nuns’d passed notes to each other in. That book, which had notes in the margins of their love, is gone now. Dean burned it.

Tears sting at Dean’s eyes. He must’ve been too soft, about Jake. He must’ve--something must’ve given him away. Why else would he be punished like this?

_ He knows,  _ Dean thinks.  _ He knows, he knows, he knows.  _ It becomes a mantra, moving in time with his shovel. He switches graves. 

It’s just that it’s his birthday. The message--the warning--would’ve gotten across regardless, Dean thinks. But why, of all days, why his birthday? Why can’t Dean have a fucking  _ break  _ for once? 

Seventeen sucks, Dean thinks, hitting the first coffin. He climbs out of the hole and switches to the other one. It supremely sucks. Sixteen you get a drivers’ license, eighteen you can, like, vote or whatever, but seventeen is nothing. Just a bunch of shit. 

_ He knows, he knows, he knows.  _

Dean hits the second coffin and breaks it open. The bones are like the ones in Sister Perpetua’s grave--pale and gross, just like most bones are. Dean doesn’t know why he kind of expected different. He climbs out and throws his shovel aside, picks up the thing of salt. He dumps it on one grave, then the other. Lighter fluid, next. Dean’s done this before. Even if Dad and Sammy are usually here, Dean knows how this goes. 

He takes the matchbook from his pocket, strikes one and drops it, then the other. The graves light up, the flame flickering bright and warm, and Dean thinks he hears screaming. He drops to his knees and whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He realizes that he’s still crying, that tears have run down his face, and for the first time on this supremely shitty birthday, he’s glad to be alone, kneeling between the graves of two women who were in love, twin fires burning bright on either side of him. 

-

Dean wakes up slowly, as he often does these days. There’s a warm blanket around his shoulders, and under that a heavy arm slung over his waist. Sometimes Dean remembers the days he was too antsy to even get under the covers, ready to jump into action at any minute, and it all seems so absurd. 

Light trickles in softly from the window across the room, and the arm around Dean’s waist tightens. Dean turns, slow, smiling already at the sight he knows will greet him. 

Cas is kind of awake, squinting at him but smiling, his hair ruffled and sticking out everywhere, and Dean feels sort of like he might burst. 

“Mmm,” he says. “Good morning.” He stretches his own arm around Cas’s shoulders and draws the man closer to him, Cas’s arm shifting from it’s loose hold to pull their chests together. 

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas says, his voice even lower, rough from sleep. Dean grins, tucks his face under Cas’s chin to hide it. 

“Every day’s my birthday when I get to wake up to the best present ever laying in my bed,” Dean says, even though that’s ridiculously sappy and also doesn’t make sense. 

“I am not a present, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean makes a ‘hmm’ noise. 

“I was talking about Miracle, dumbass,” he says, nudging the sleeping dog in question with his toes.

“Of course you were,” Cas says indulgently, like he’s just humoring him. Which is fair, possibly. Dean thinks that Cas spends a lot of time just humoring him. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Dean asks, shifting his arm to touch the back of Cas’s neck, right at the spot where his t-shirt meets his skin.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas says, holding him tighter like he thinks Dean will get out of bed, which is quite frankly an absurd idea. It’s a Sunday, and it’s his birthday. Dean has nowhere else to be.

“It might, since Sammy’s coming over today,” Dean says, even though Sam and Eileen are coming over in the late afternoon and it’s definitely still morning.

“Well, it’s not time for them to come yet,” Cas says. “We can get up later.”

Dean definitely agrees, and he snuggles back down into Cas, getting even more comfortable. He’s just thinking about falling back asleep, maybe, deciding that this is his best birthday ever, even though it’s only been like ten minutes, when he remembers his worst birthday and has to pause. 

“Dean?” Cas asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Dean noses against him, taking a deep breath. “You read my...my dad’s journal?”

“Yes,” Cas says warily. The journal is usually safe, but Cas can get pissy when John Winchester is mentioned. 

“You remember my seventeenth birthday?” Dean asks, and then all of a sudden his angel is trying to squeeze the life out of him. Dean appreciates it, even though he can’t really breathe. 

“I remember,” Cas growls, and Dean pats his shoulder. 

“I was just thinking about how that was the worst, and this is the best,” Dean says, and Cas relaxes his hold a little. “I, uh...that day felt like a huge warning. And now I’m here, with you, and, uh, it’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie.”

“John Winchester deserves to rot in hell for eternity for what he did to you and Sam,” Cas says. “But I am glad to be here with you, and I agree that it’s pretty awesome.”

“I love you,” Dean says, helpless as he always is in the face of Cas’s protectiveness. 

“I love you too,” Cas says, moving a hand to tenderly cradle Dean’s jaw. He begins to guide Dean’s head towards his, and Dean is so sorry to interrupt, but--

“Do you smell pancakes?” he asks, and Cas pauses, considering. 

“Yes,” he says finally. 

“Well, if I’m here in bed, and you’re here in bed, and Miracle, I’m pretty sure, can’t make pancakes, and is also in bed, then who…”

“Jack,” they say together, and Dean laughs. 

“Do we trust Jack with the stove?”

“He  _ is  _ God,” Cas says, but that doesn’t sound like a ‘yes’. They look at each other and then sigh, rolling apart so they can get out of bed. 

“We’ll continue this later,” Dean says, pointing at Cas, who nods. 

“Of course,” he says, and he reaches out and grabs Dean’s shirt, pulling him in for a sadly-brief kiss. “Happy birthday.”

Dean beams at him, and then they go downstairs to help their son make pancakes without burning the house down, Miracle bounding down the stairs beside them, and Dean can’t help but agree with his earlier assessment--that this is his best birthday ever. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments/kudos always enjoyed & appreciated <3
> 
> you can find me @deanspurpleflannel on tumblr, where i also posted this fic


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